


Purgatory Is for the Dead

by a_silver_sun



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: F/M, Mattelektra Secret Santa 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 02:51:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13157697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_silver_sun/pseuds/a_silver_sun
Summary: Elektra finds Matthew sleeping alone in a dark and empty infirmary. And to her utter surprise, the room in which she finds him is completely open and unguarded.Quite naive of them to leave him alone and vulnerable like this. Anyone could simply waltz in here and take him, if they wanted.





	Purgatory Is for the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> written for fadedtoblue for the Mattelektra Secret Santa exchange on tumblr
> 
>  
> 
> And a huge thank you to significantowl for looking over this thing and going through it with a fine-tooth comb. It's a better piece for it. <3

*

Elektra finds Matthew sleeping alone in a dark and empty infirmary. And to her utter surprise, the room in which she finds him is completely open and unguarded. 

Quite naive of them to leave him alone and vulnerable like this. Anyone could simply waltz in here and take him, if they wanted.

After she’s approached the bed, she says, “I am sorry,” and she genuinely means it, because she has some regret about what she’s about to do. She might feel less awful about waking him had he been sleeping soundly. She knows he’s not, his breathing is shallow and stuttered, and tiny muscle spasms ripple across his face. He’s either in immense pain, or he’s having intensely disturbing dreams. Perhaps even both. Still, she has to wake him; it can’t be helped. There’s no time. 

As she carefully lowers herself over him on the bed, she keeps mindful of how much weight her body presses down on him, lest she agitate his injuries any further.  


Underneath his thin t-shirt, the bloodied and tightly wound bandages barely hold his torso together. “But we have to go.”

He doesn’t wake, and she doesn’t have the heart to force the matter. Instead, she steals from this moment what she can; she gently brings her hands up to his head, and drags her long fingernails through his flat and sweaty hair. It might be taking advantage, just a little, but his face and his body start to relax by increments as her fingers lightly scratch at his scalp. He starts to stir underneath her, moaning a little, and she responds by sliding her hands down his jawline and cupping his face before pressing their foreheads together. 

It's a beautiful and intimate moment. Matthew continues to moan and squirm under the weight of her, and it leaves her wanting to moan and squirm right along with him. But this isn’t the time nor the place for the kind of intimacy she so craves from him, and for as close and cozy as she’s feeling right now, it isn’t something they share. He is, after all, in immense pain, recuperating in a hospital bed. 

Besides, there just isn’t time. Even now as she lies here with him, approximately a half a dozen men scour this very building. And they carry with them clear instructions: bring their quarry to their leader alive, and if at all possible, unharmed. 

As much as she regrets it, they have to go. So she wraps her arms around his torso, careful not to jostle him about overly much, and hauls him up into a sitting position. Spots a pair of white tennis shoes tucked just underneath his bed, and shoves his feet into them. 

“Move your ass,” she commands as she pulls him up to standing, but he’s listing against her, struggling to keep conscious. 

“Who--” Matthew tries to say, his voice sandpaper-rough from disuse. She hushes him when the lights inside the infirmary flicker on, and in the doorway stands a graying, middle-aged woman. She’s wearing a pair of thin house slippers, a loose fitting dressing gown, and quite the cautious expression on her face.

The woman gasps at the sight of her, and Elektra responds by grabbing ahold of Matthew’s shoulders and shoving him, hard. He stumbles forward a bit, tripping over his own feet at having been unexpectedly pushed, but Elektra continues to exert control over the situation by manhandling him some more, this time grabbing his upper arm, and hauling him back toward her. From behind, she presses her body firmly against him, and throws her right arm across the front of him, holding him securely in place. Then she uses her free hand to unsheath her sai from its holster at her thigh, and brings it up to press its sharp tip right against his throat. A small bead of blood forms at the point of the blade like a tiny red kiss, and he grits his teeth and jerks away from the bite of it like some wild, untrained thing.

Well. She can certainly appreciate a man who knows how to put on a show.

“Now, now,” she scolds as she applies a bit more pressure to the sai at his throat, drawing just a little more blood. Turning toward the woman still framed in the doorway, she says, “I’ll be taking him now, if you don’t mind.” 

A confused expression overtakes the other woman’s face, and Elektra can’t blame her for it. Not really. After all, it was Elektra herself who had been the one to deposit a broken and bloodied Matthew into this very woman's arms no more than a week before. Had intentionally sought her out so she may care for him, trusting her implicitly to do just that.

Elektra may not possess very many maternal instincts of her own, but she does know a mother should care for her son. Despite their relationship. Or lack thereof.

“Go on and run off back to your room,” Elektra says to Matthew’s mother with a dismissive wave of a hand, “and let us keep this little…” she pauses as though searching for the right word: “ _interruption?_ Between the two of us, shall we?”

“No,” his mother says, stepping forward and emphatically shaking her head. Stubborn, this one. She sees where Matthew gets it from. “Don’t move him, please. He’s not ready.” 

“Matthew,” Elektra says, voice dripping with a sweetness so artificial, it would be cloying even for a child, “are you ready, darling?”

With an air of disappointment and a frustrated huff, Mummy dear disappears back down the corridor from which she emerged. Unfortunately, her departure buys them no extra time. The men still approach, and good Sister Maggie has run off to tell the others of Elektra’s intrusion. (And attempted kidnapping. Let’s be honest, here.)

Matthew’s head tilts in that adorable puppy dog way of his, intently listening. “There are… people coming for us. One floor up. They’re real quiet, though.” His voice is hushed, and his curiosity is definitely piqued, and oh, could she kiss him for it. 

“We may have to fight our way out of here,” she says, not bothering to hide her own growing excitement at the prospect of a physical confrontation. “Think you’re up for it?” Even though she knows perfectly well he most certainly is not. Not with the way he’s still listing to one side and unsteady on his feet.

“Probably not,” he says, but he carefully extricates himself from underneath the supporting weight of her arm, and with a pained groan, he finally manages to stand on his own two feet.

She flashes a wide grin at him. He’s brought up his fists, ready for a fight, and they move toward the hallway with easy purpose. Well, she does, Matthew’s lumbering behind her like a decrepit old man. 

And when the men finally do catch up with them, they spill into to the room and surround them on all sides. 

Now of course, for even as well trained as these men are, they offer no real challenge for her. Nor do they for Matthew, despite his injuries giving him the appearance of being so weak a light tap might be all that was needed to take him down. Well. If there’s one thing Matthew is good at, it’s knowing how to take a perceived weakness and turn it into an advantage.

As he fights, Matthew forgoes most of his more showier martial arts moves, instead opting for his more boring boxing moves. His default setting, as it were. It’s clear his injuries are limiting his range of motion, because she’s certainly seen better from him. It’s a shame, really.

Still, they make an excellent team, and despite his weakened state, they work seamlessly and in perfect tandem. 

And oh, the _sounds_ he makes as he lands all those precision jabs and hooks. The guttural grunts, the wild, uninhibited roars. Her own blood sings with it; the two of them, engaged in a violent and bloody duet.

Matthew drops two men. And Elektra handles the rest.

After it’s done, she does not pull her sword. She considers it, wants it, craves it in that intense way she craves anything she sets her sights on. Killing these men would go a long way in satisfying the bloodlust screaming through her veins, and despite every instinct burning inside her, she manages to stop just short of it; yes, she’s quite aware of Matthew’s strong disapproval of such things, thank you very much, but it isn’t his opinions on killing that are informing her restraint here. No. More, she’s decided to be mindful of the fact that the space in which they occupy is a sacred one. It is true that she does not share Matthew’s faith, but she has respect for it. For his sake, and for her own. For these men, and for the kind Sisters here called to mend them.

“Elektra,” Matthew says. He seems to collapse in on himself. 

“You must have a lot of questions,” she tries.

“Yeah,” he says. He sounds absolutely unimpressed by everything that’s just happened. “Like, what the hell do you want.”

“Me?” she asks, feigning innocence. “Why don’t we get ourselves out of here first, and we can catch up afterwards, yes?” she teases. She then pointedly looks around at the bodies strewn about their feet. “We’ve made quite the mess now, haven’t we. Do you think Mummy will be very angry?”

He pouts beautifully at that. She’s about to tease him about that, too, but he makes an urgent shushing sound at her before she has the chance. Does that puppy dog head tilt again, and an awed, perhaps even a prideful expression washes over his face. “No, it’s good, they’re good, she uh… she’s kept them all safe, and,” he licks his lips and angles his head to face her more directly, “she knows. Why you’re here. She… understands.” Whatever it is he’s overhearing from or about his mother, obviously he’s more than impressed by it.

He shakes his head. He doesn’t understand, not really, and Elektra doubts Sister Maggie does either. Forgives her for her crimes here, maybe, though for the life of her she cannot figure out why. It’s something the two share, then. Mother and son. This bottomless well of compassion they’re so willing to share. She isn’t sure she deserves something as good as forgiveness. 

“Well,” she says, trying to cover a wet sniff, “let’s not dawdle, then. You won’t believe it, but I do have a car waiting for us.”

Matthew huffs. “Of course you do,” he says, but he follows along after her without further comment.

*

Elektra died once. She can’t say she enjoyed it much.

“What do you want, Elektra,” Matthew had said, jaw clenched tight with pain. “What do you want with me, with us.”

“I want you, I want us to be together.”

“We are. We are,” he whispered into her hair.

This time around, Matthew’s cradled in her weary arms. 

_What do you want?_

What does she want? 

“What do you want, Matthew,” she had said to him, and without missing a beat, he had replied, “let’s run away together, you and me. Like we talked about before,” (before she had died, he meant…) and for the briefest of moments, she had considered it. Had imagined the two of them living under assumed identities, in the best cities in the world.

But the false narratives of who they were would not be the only lies they would tell. And while this kind of deception comes as second nature to her, she knows Matthew isn’t really cut out for it. He may think so, may even believe he would thrive in it, but she knows it would just end up killing him. 

Oh, his body would survive, to be certain. If there’s one thing Matthew Murdock understands, it’s how to get back up again. And to never, ever stop once he does. But it would have all been a lie. The two of them, living large on the lam; it would have been a beautiful lie, an exciting and even thrilling lie, but a lie nonetheless. And she knows him entirely too well for that. She knows the sort of life they could lead together, the kind of beautiful life she would insist upon: for the rest of their lives, eating nothing but the best meals hand-served to them by the the world’s most decorated of Michelin star chefs, fucking their way through every penthouse suite in every luxury hotel in every city in the world, or swimming naked at all the best private beaches, or skiing the most exclusive mountain slopes, but she knows that sort of life simply couldn’t last. Not for long, anyhow. Because if there’s one thing she knows, it’s how much Matthew loves his city. And no matter how exquisite the lie, eventually it would be the thing that would destroy him.

And this is how she comes to decide what she actually _wants_ as the building crumbles and rains down around them.

And it isn’t to die in the cold, and it isn’t to allow Matthew, the man she loves, to die here either.

This is what living feels like, she realizes as she pulls him out from under a pile of debris. And this is what redemption feels like. This is what she wants, and she sees this for what it is: an opportunity, a second chance at life, and she wants to fight for it, to fight for him, whether they’re apart or together.

Because Elektra had died once before, and she doesn’t want to bear it again. And she doesn’t want the man she so loves to have to bear it either.

* 

Matthew had fallen asleep almost as soon as she started the car, his head comically lolling against the seat belt shoulder strap. It’s a shame, really, because they don’t have all that far to go, and she does so enjoy stealing glances at him; his profile especially, even if it is slack-jawed and drooling.

Before she had died, Elektra Natchios had been a cunning businesswoman who knew how to shuffle her money around. The building she’s chosen for their little hide-out was but one example of the many ways in which she hid her funds in plain sight--it’s a stylish and uninhabited condominium she’d purchased under an assumed name, under a shell company, under a tangle of paperwork so complex it would take several lifetimes just to untangle. But she owns it, free and clear, and while she lacks Matthew’s bloodhound nose, she feels confident they haven’t been followed.

After pulling into the car park, she just sits for a minute and lets the car idle, waiting to see if Matthew will wake up on his own. 

He doesn’t, he just continues snoring away, oblivious to the world. She rolls her eyes at him, gets out of the car, and after she’s opened the passenger side door, she extricates him from the tangle of his seatbelt, lifts him right up into a sloppy fireman’s carry.

He may be heavy, but she is strong, strong enough to carry him to one of the already furnished apartments.

The condo’s not much, but they’ll be safe here. And that is her only priority. 

Well, that, and the heated swimming pool on the ground level. She might be hiding out, but she isn’t a _complete_ boor.

“Darling, welcome home,” she says before carrying him across the threshold. Sets him down on the artfully worn black leather sofa set against one of the living room’s walls, all of which are painted eggshell white. Over the sofa hangs a framed black and white lithograph of the nearby Hell Gate bridge, and she instantly hates it. Hates this whole boring, black and white hell.

At least Matthew is sleeping soundly for a change; more soundly now than when she first found him in that hospital bed, anyway. Of course, she doesn’t expect to do a better job tending to his injuries than the Sisters of Mercy or whoever they were supposed to be, but this is what she’s chosen. What she wants. To have him here by her side, for good or for ill.

She takes a moment to shuck off her clothing, right there in the middle of the living room, and heads for the bathroom to take the hottest shower she can stand.

The boring as hell black and white motif extends into the bathroom as well--black and white tiled floor, white painted walls, black sink and counter tops. Classic, she supposes, but boring. And of course, on one of the walls hangs another framed photograph of the Hell Gate bridge, this time from the point of view of the train as it heads down the track. Something about the endless, empty track stretching out underneath the solid metal frame unsettles her, and she starts to wonder just what kind of person would think to put up such a thing.

“You have terrible taste,” she says to whoever it was responsible for decorating. Wherever he or she may happen to be. 

She has half a mind to take the damn thing down and throw it out, or burn it, or something equally dramatic, but that would be a waste of time; they won’t be here long enough for it to matter. Still, that doesn’t stop her from imagining all sorts of interesting ideas for the place as she steps in the shower to rinse her hair. Perhaps someday they’ll have a place of their very own to set up and call home. Just like they talked about back in school all those years ago. 

And just what sort of place would Matthew like? She’s seen the sparse and boring excuse for an apartment he’d called home, and if there’s one thing she simply will not abide, it’s anything boring.

When she steps out to towel off, she spots Matthew in the doorway, with his eyebrows up in a very telling manner. She’d left the bathroom door wide open on purpose, though he stays firmly on the outside of it.

She gives him an unconcerned shrug, and tosses her towel at him. Surprisingly, he fumbles it, until she realizes he’s been carrying the clothing she’d left behind in the other room.

“Oops,” she says, with no real intent behind it.

He smirks at her, wordlessly hands over her clothes, and turns back toward the living room.

Well.

Instead of following after him, she drops the clothing on the floor, wraps herself in a large, fluffy black bath towel she’d found in the linen cabinet, and searches out the master bedroom.

Once she’s found it, she braces herself for more of the same ugly decor, and she isn’t disappointed. The bedroom too is very sparse; evidence that no real person actually lives here; everything within these walls is simply for show. A model home for a model life.

It is surprising to find actual clothing inside the moderately sized walk-in closet. There’s a pair of men’s dress shirts hanging from a metal rod; both of them gleaming white, of course. She snatches one down and puts it on, leaving a few of the top buttons open. Along the opposite wall, she finds another hanging rod, this time with a pair of black men’s slacks neatly folded over its cedarwood hanger. She absolutely swims in them, but she knows how to make it work.

 

After she’s finished exploring the bedroom, she heads for the kitchen. “This all seems rather familiar, doesn’t it,” she calls as she opens up the refrigerator. 

“Where are we, Elektra,” he asks. He’s standing in the entryway fidgeting with the drawstrings on his sweatpants, and looking distinctly unhappy. 

“Somewhere safe,” is all she answers with.

“Yeah, all right. So, this. All this,” he says, and he gives a vague gesture meant to encompass the entire condo, “this is what you want?”

“What,” she says, “living that fantasy life we cooked up all those years ago?”

“Sure,” he says. His face is very intense. She’s not sure how to read him. “Maybe a little less murder this time.”

Ah.

“You don’t trust me,” she sniffs.

Instead of answering, he asks, “what is it you want.”

“Right now? I want to eat good food,” though there isn’t a morsel to be found. Maybe they could order out? Too bad there’s no room service in an empty condominium. “Drink enough tequila--or whisky, your choice--until we’re both unable to stand, and fuck in every room, in every conceivable way.”

He laughs incredulously at that. “You are out of your mind if you think you can just kidnap me in the middle of the night and then go on and act like we’re just some happy couple on vacation. Nuh uh. That is not happening.”

“Then what do you want,” she asks him.

“What do I want? How about telling me what the hell I’m doing here. Or… or maybe you can tell me about those guys we fought. Why were they after you. You’re gonna tell me everything you know, and I’m not moving from this spot until you do.” He folds his arms and leans against the door jamb to illustrate his point. Childish, maybe, but effective.

“I did promise you answers,” she admits, and pushes her way past him, back into the living room where she dramatically drops herself onto the leather sofa. Lifts up an arm up to invite him over.

He doesn’t take her up on it, though. Instead, he carefully lowers himself down onto the top of the coffee table which sits directly across from her. Winces with pain as he adjusts his torso and folds in his legs, and aims his head more or less in her general direction. Moves his hand vaguely in a circular motion meant to indicate, ‘ _all right, let’s get on with it._ ’

She takes a moment to stretch out her legs along the length of the sofa, and as she does, she accidentally catches a glimpse of the framed photo of the bridge out of the corner of her eye. The sight of it makes her vaguely nauseous, so she pointedly turns away. Looks instead at the concern and, frankly, unhappy lines etched deeply into Matthew’s face.

Well. Better get this over with, then.

“Do you remember,” she starts. And all at once she’s cognizant of how cold her bare feet are. She brings them up and tucks them underneath herself, and while she’s aware that they’ll probably end up falling asleep like that, at least they’ll stay warm. For the moment, anyway.

It’s a stall tactic, she realizes that, but his eyebrows remain furrowed as he waits for her to collect her thoughts.

“Do you remember... that night? When I--” And all the color drains from his face. She has to internally kick herself, because of course he remembers. He hasn't _recovered_ from it. 

“Elektra.” And oh how she wishes she could reach straight into the soul of him, rip out that grief and anguish, and replace it with something else; something warm, something good. But then, she would have to possess those things in the first place, wouldn’t she. Knowing him, he would probably tell her that she already does have that sort of kindness and warmth inside of her, he has in fact told her as much. Perhaps one day she’ll even believe it. 

Well. She doesn’t have a choice now; she has to tell him.

“I changed my mind,” she finally says.

His face scrunches up in confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“Those men. They weren’t after me. They were after you. I know because I sent them.”

His eyebrows shoot straight into his hairline. Soundlessly mouths something she’s unable to hear before continuing: “why would you do that.” He doesn’t sound skeptical, or angry. He doesn’t sound like anything at all.

“You asked me what I wanted? This. You here with me.”

He barks out a sharp laugh at that. A bitter sound. An ugly sound.

“So let me get this straight: you hired some random guys to sneak into the convent I was recuperating in, and… and what. _Kidnap_ me? So you could swoop in and play the hero? Is that it?” 

Once he’s done with that little rant, he hisses as his hand shoots straight to his side, suddenly mindful of his injuries.

“Of course not,” she says. Her voice cracks on her words, and she tries to remedy the broken feeling by reaching toward him, but he jerks away from her, refusing her touch. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t hurt by it. “I’m not a hero. Not like you. I wanted… It was selfish of me, that I know, but I wanted you by my side. So I sent them to bring you to me, but in the end, I changed my mind. Then I had to fix my mistake, because I know that you deserved better. You deserved a choice. And I’m sorry for taking that away from you.”

He gingerly rises from his seat atop the coffee table, and walks away from her. He seems like he wants to pace, but is perhaps still too injured for it. He reaches out a hand to find the back of the loveseat adjacent to the sofa, and lowers himself into it, holding his ribs as if they threaten to spill out of him. Once he’s again seated, he rubs at his face and runs his hands through his hair.

He nods, and says, “okay.” That’s it. Just ‘okay.’ But she knows him, knows it means so much more. She hears so much more. “And…” he gestures to the room at large, “all this?”

“You aren’t a prisoner,” she says, trying to keep that hurt from her voice. But Matthew is perceptive; not much gets past him.

He nods at that, and says, “then I want to go home.” To himself he adds: “ that is, if I still have one to go back to.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. I may have… recently _acquired_ the building.”

As she sits up, she gives him a fond expression. And maybe it’s lost on him, and maybe it isn’t, but that doesn’t matter to her at all, because she means it. She really, truly does. 

Still, he gives her a huff of a laugh, and a fond smile of his own. “Well. I hope you’re a fair landlord. Don’t price me out, all right? I kinda like where I am.” 

“No promises,” she teases. 

She stretches out, fatigue finally catching up with her. Avoids looking at the print hanging overhead. 

“You know,” she says, “I have the _best_ idea. Why don’t we get out of here and find somewhere else to rest.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes. And I know just the place. It’s wonderfully boring, you’ll just love it.” 

He laughs, so she adds: “besides, I may have a bit of a confession.” She lifts her hand and leaves a teeny-tiny space between her thumb and index finger. “ _Un peu._ ” 

“Oh?” 

“Don’t you find this place just a little,” _disquieting?_ “Odd?” 

His face grows serious in a way she hadn’t expected. “How so?” 

It all seems so silly now. They’re just oversized photographs of a famous New York City landmark. Hardly worth all the fuss. “Did I say odd? I meant boring,” she jokes, and he once again smiles at that, wide and happy, like he can’t read her discomfort, can’t read her lie. “Boring as hell.” 

“Wait. I thought my place was boring as hell,” he deadpans. 

“No, I said _my_ place was boring, or don’t you listen.” 

“My mistake.” 

Decision made, then; they’re going to get the hell out of here. She gets up from her spot on the sofa, and collects her pile of clothing. “After you,” she says, gesturing sarcastically toward the door to take Matthew back to his-- _pardon_ , back to her place--so that they may catch up on some real rest, in a place other than this one; especially one lacking in disturbingly unsettling Hell Gate bridges hanging over her head like some kind of threat. 

Fortunately, they don’t have very far to go, and the ride over to Matthew’s building is quick. And while Matthew has on his person no personal effects save for the very clothes he wears, she knows enough about him from watching over him (and unexpectedly popping in on him) to know that he keeps the rooftop access to his apartment open and unlocked. Easily accessible. Not the smartest choice in the world, but that’s Matthew all over, isn’t it; intelligent, well educated, but often lacking in common sense. 

She kicks open the rooftop door, and Matthew makes a face that reads so much as, ‘she does what she does. What can you do?’ and she responds by lifting her chin and pushing past him, leaving him standing atop the stairs in her wake. 

She stalks around the space in a proprietary sort of way; dragging her fingers across all the furnishings as if she were marking her territory, but the truth is, she is so grateful to be back here. It’s familiar, and it’s home. It’s Matthew’s home, true, but it’s her home as well, so long as he’ll have her. 

He seems profoundly more relaxed than he had been at the condo, in pain, still, yes, but comfortable. He doesn’t ask if they’re safe here, if the men she’d hired to collect him have followed them; perhaps because he knows the two of them can take them if it comes to that, or it could be because he trusts her, though maybe he shouldn’t. She doesn’t really know anymore. 

He’s carrying his first aid kit underneath his right arm, his elbow sharply sticking out like a bony wing. “I’m gonna--” and he hooks his thumb toward the bathroom. _Change my bandages._ She nods, and watches him as he gently shuts the door, and she heads into the bedroom. Strips out of the borrowed clothing from the condo’s large walk-in closet, and replaces them with her own. _Back to herself_ , she thinks, whoever the hell she is.

Matthew carefully crawls into the bed next to her, seemingly mindful not to wake her, which is a surprise because she hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep. He moves right into her space, brushes several strands of her long hair out of her eyes, and places a gentle kiss just at her temple.

Their legs seem to intertwine of their own accord, and he’s wrapping his strong arms around her torso. Her arms do the same. Holding each other in place. For now, just for now. 

“Good night, Elektra,” he whispers in her ear just as she drifts off to sleep. And this time she stays asleep until morning.

*

“I’m glad you’re still here,” he says, voice soft and disbelieving. The smile he gives her is a forced one, and she realizes he had likely expected to wake to an empty bed, an empty life. And while it is true that she had stolen him away under false pretenses, the ache she feels within her heart is real. It’s a real ache, and real regret, because as loathe as she is to admit it, she can’t have this. She can’t stay here, cozy and warm in Matthew’s bed, in his open and welcoming arms. She’s too sharp-edged for that, too poised and ready for battle.

And he is, too, Matthew. He’s simply discovered other ways to fight, ways he can use his own finely honed skills. Ways that require brains instead of fists. But she also knows he needs both; two sides to complete the whole. She hopes he’ll one day find that balance for himself.

“I am, too,” she says, but it’s bittersweet, because it won’t be true for very much longer.

“Elektra,” he says. He gently takes her hand into his, and starts worrying at her fingers, her knuckles. “Don’t let it become another ten years.”

“Or another life.”

“Or another life,” he agrees.

She stretches out, groans loudly as she does and says, “I wish we could stay here like this.”

“We can,” he says, though he doesn’t sound convinced either.

“You’ll have a lot of work to do.”

“There are a lot of pieces I have to pick up,” he agrees. “Rise from the dead,” he says with a small laugh, “put my life back together.” He runs his hands over his face, “go see Maggie…”

“I am sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He says it without venom, without pain or bitterness, and she’s not sure she’ll ever understand how he can so easily forgive. 

“Nothing’s changed, you know. I’m still--” She doesn’t want to say it. Doesn’t want to sully this moment with the truth of who she is, what she is. What she still has to do. Matthew has to rebuild his life, but then, so does she.

He sits up, swings his legs around so his bare feet touch the ground. She has a good view of his bandaged body from this angle, can see he still has a long way to go, no matter how good a brave face he puts on.

He twists around, and reaches an arm toward her so he can run his fingers through her hair. Says, “stay for breakfast?”

She sighs contently at his warm touch, savors the moment while she can, because the moment he’s not paying attention, she intends on slipping out of here unnoticed. 

She nods at him, because for now, for the moment anyway, she doesn’t have anywhere else to be.

 

-end-

*

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> <3


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